The Detrimental Effect of Souvenirs
by S. Faith
Summary: An epilogue of sorts to The Secret Life of Bees.  Movie universe.  Mark should really keep better track of what he’s carrying in his pockets.


**The Detrimental Effect of Souvenirs**

(An epilogue of sorts to "The Secret Life of Bees")

By S. Faith, © 2007

Words: 2,925

Rating: M / R

Summary: Mark should really keep better track of what he's carrying in his pockets.

Disclaimer: I stake no claim to the characters. The story, however, I take full responsibility for.

Notes: A few days after I posted that aforementioned story, I realized I had missed an opportunity for comedy gold. So today I wrote this.

* * *

…_some time after the conclusion of that story…_

"Glad you could make it today."

Mark extended his hand as he arrived, shaking Nigel's hand, then took a seat at the table. Business brunch was a strange concept to Mark, but they had to get the details hammered out for closing arguments on Monday, and the rest of the partners were more amenable to extra time on the case if there was food in the offering.

"Of course." There was one chair remaining around the large, circular table, and for a split second, as Mark took his seat, thoughts of King Arthur went through his mind.

They each ordered their meals, got their coffees and teas, and within the privacy of the reserved meeting room they began the work at hand. It was not fun by any means, tedious to the extreme, and to add to Mark's misery, Jeremy had apparently picked up a head cold from one of his children (little Petri dishes that they were), sniffling distractingly from the seat to Mark's left.

"Say, Mark," Jeremy said, coming alarmingly close considering his infectious nature, "have you a handkerchief?"

"Let me see. Hm. I think so."

He dove his hand down into his jacket pocket, felt a bit of fabric in there. As he pulled it up, pondered why on earth he had a silky handkerchief in his pocket, he was struck with the sudden memory of a rather adventurous flight, and he glanced down just as the edge of it was visible under his palm.

Oh, _God_.

He shoved it back down as far as he could into the shallow pocket, wished he could shove it even farther than that, wished he could command the stain of colour flooding his skin to retreat.

"Well?" asked Jeremy.

"Sorry, no, I don't."

"You all right?"

"Yes."

_Just having sudden and remarkably vivid, as Bridget would put it, 'shag flashbacks'_, Mark thought.

"Are you sure?" asked Jeremy.

"Yes. Sorry."

"What's going on over there?" boomed Nigel from the other side of the table, standing as he had the floor of the meeting, such as it was.

"Nothing, nothing." Mark kept his hand protectively over the item in his pocket, as if Jeremy might take a fancy to suddenly tackle him and pull the thing out.

"Sounds like an awful lot of nothing," said Camilla, smirking.

"It's fine."

"You look flushed, Mark. You sure you're all right?" came another voice. Giles? He wasn't sure. He was too busy avoiding eye contact.

"I'm fine. Jeremy just wants a handkerchief. Carry on with the discussion."

Blessedly, they did drop their line of questioning and continue brainstorming for court. Someone even found Jeremy something to relieve his sniffling. Unfortunately Mark's torture was not yet over, because he could only think of the satin and lace under his fingertips, could only think of how they had come to be in his jacket pocket, could not keep his body from responding to those thoughts.

To his horror, he heard his name, heard someone (again, he was still painstakingly avoiding looking directly at anyone) give him the floor, to offer his opinions and recommendations for closing the case in court.

He could do little but demur and say that he agreed with the strategy as laid out so far even though he hadn't heard a word of it, because there was no way he was going to stand in front of his business colleagues in the condition he was in. That was the stuff nightmares were made of.

"I'm surprised, Darcy," said Nigel. "I thought for sure you'd want to streamline the thrust of the discussion. Really drive home the point, force them to take a good, long, penetratingly hard look at the reality of the situation."

"It's fine as it is," he said uncertainly, fully aware that every set of eyes was trained on him, wanting nothing more than to wink out of existence.

As the talking resumed around him, he thought studiously of cricket, of beige walls, of Queen and Country, released the bundle of demonic fabric sitting like a time bomb in his pocket and slowly retreated his hand, careful to observe that it hadn't caught on a button and been pulled out with his sleeve. Within minutes things had calmed down considerably, and he felt it best to get out while the getting was good.

Feigning his mobile was ringing, he excused himself to answer it, leaving the room. Once beyond the line of sight of his colleagues, he exhaled a great breath, leaned up against the wall, closing his eyes.

She was nothing if not a force of destruction on his old way of life… and he was, in all honesty, thankful for that despite the mortification she occasionally caused him, like now, even if only indirectly.

"Darce, old boy, you really all right?"

He jumped at the sound of Jeremy's voice near to him. "What? Yes, I'm fine."

Jeremy looked skeptical. "I don't see you actually speaking on the phone that was allegedly just ringing, and you had nothing at all to say about Giles' ridiculous organisational outline for closing statements. Yes, I'm sure you're fine," he said sarcastically.

"It was a quick call. Actually, I have to leave. Emergency at home," he lied.

Jeremy, damn his dark little soul, began to smirk. "Emergency at home. Right." His voice dropped down so low Mark could hardly hear it, but there was no mistaking the words he said: "Magda's got a pair just like them."

Oh, _God_.

"I'll make your excuses, hm?" continued Jeremy with a wink, and with that, he ducked back into the meeting room. Mark hoped by 'excuses' he meant 'bald-faced lies'.

As he strode to his car, he pulled out his mobile, punching in the speed dial for hers, desperate to see her.

"Hello, Bridget Jones' mobile, this is Bridget Jones' mother."

He almost walked into a lamppost.

"Mrs Jones? It's Mark."

"Mark!" As if Bridget's phone did not have incoming caller display.

"Yes… may I speak with Bridget?"

"Oh, _no_. She's very busy right now. She's just tried on the second dress and there are five to go."

Mark searched his mental calendar for what it was that Bridget was scheduled to do that afternoon, and then he remembered with a sickening sense of dread. Bridal dress shopping with her mum. "Oh. Any idea how much longer she'll be?"

"Oh, durr, I don't know. We've already been an hour. And before you ask, no, you can't join us," she said teasingly. "You'll just have to be patient."

_You have no idea,_ he thought, especially as he had been overcome with the thought of her, wedding dress hiked up to her waist, pressed up against him in the changing room stall.

"I'll tell her you called. Ta!"

With that she disconnected, or at least she tried; it sounded like she was having difficulty finding the 'End' button, before finally pressing the right one.

He only hoped dress number three turned out to be the dress of her dreams. Until then, he resigned himself to his thoughts, and perhaps a cold shower.

………

When his mobile rang four hours later, it was Bridget, and he answered enthusiastically. "Hello, darling."

"Mark! Where are you?"

He furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean, where am I? At home, waiting for you to call."

"We're waiting for you."

"'We'?"

"My parents, your parents, dinner…?"

This was turning out to be the worst day ever.

He cleaned himself up, dressed for dinner, and went as quickly as he could to the appointed restaurant, bursting with apologies as he joined the table, and, unfortunately, a renewed bursting of other feelings when he saw his fiancée, dressed in a gorgeous ivory dress, sitting clear across the table from him, his mother on one side, her own on the other, peering at him as if daring him to have lustful thoughts.

After ordering drinks and appetizers, he looked to Bridget with what he knew to be his most penetrating gaze. "Darling, may I have a word with you outside, please?"

She opened her mouth to reply when her mother piped up, "No! We need her here. We are in the middle of a _very_ important discussion on the colour theme of the reception!" Even his mother stared at him like he'd lost his mind.

He shrank back into his chair. "Sorry."

He looked to Mr Jones, who offered a sympathetic smile. "It's like we don't even really have to be here, really," he said.

"Just show up on time wearing a tuxedo," added his own father. "Pretty much the extent of our involvement."

By the time the colour theme had been decided, not only had the appetizers arrived and been disposed of, wine glasses filled and refilled many times, but dinner itself was nearly gone. Pamela Jones smiled proudly. "Well, today has been a very productive day." She turned her fondest gaze to Mark. "I am so happy for the two of you, truly."

He felt a smile find its way to his lips, forced at first, but turning utterly genuine when his gaze landed on his beautiful bride-to-be, who looked rather, well, overwhelmed.

He just wanted to get her home. He didn't care to which home.

Begging off dessert, he rose, and the rest of them did as well. The four parents fought over who would be paying the bill, until finally Mark stepped in and took the burden upon his own shoulders. He dug out his wallet, pulled out the requisite number of twenty pound notes, put them into the leather sleeve with the bill, then reached his hand out towards Bridget. She smiled, looked eager for escape. He would pay anything to take her away with him, just to touch her for the first time that day. Slipping his arm around her shoulders, grasping her upper arm, he leaned in and pressed a kiss into her temple. He immediately regretted it for the effect it had on him, but he stayed strong, willed himself once again to think of anything but…

Well. It was best not to think about what he shouldn't be thinking about, he realised.

………

"Oh, God, what a day," she said with a great heaving sigh as she settled into the passenger seat.

"I agree." He put the car into gear, tried not to sound too overly eager when he asked, "Shall we go to your flat?"

"Sure, but I'll warn you, I'm exhausted and my head is killing me. I don't expect I'll be any fun tonight."

He thought of it as a challenge to rise to, rather than another obstacle. After all, he was alone with her now. "I'll take care of you."

He felt her fingers slide tenderly over his knuckles on the gear stick.

The frustration he felt when he saw a figure waiting on the step of her building, a familiar, dark-haired, sheep-voiced woman standing there with tears streaming down her face, was unmatched.

"Jude!" In an instant Bridget seemed to forget her own weariness, embracing her distraught friend. "Are you all right? Come on up, tell me all about it." Bridget shot an apologetic glance to Mark. He would not have expected her to abandon her friends in their time of need, but… well, bloody bad timing, and not for the first time that day.

Mark busied himself pouring three glasses of wine, downing his almost as quickly as Jude did hers. He left the women to talk about Jude's dilemma right where they were in the kitchen, went to the living room and flipped on the telly in order to distract himself further. He had the phone beside him because, on the off chance it were to ring, he was not going to let her answer the damned thing.

There had been nights in the past where he had fallen asleep during a marathon counseling session via phone with Jude, Sharon or even Tom. This particular one was blessedly short at two and a half hours. He only dozed off twice, startled back to a wakeful state when he heard the sound of their feet on the stairs leading down to the door of the flat. With a final hug, she opened the door and bade goodbye to a much brighter-looking Jude. "I'll call you later," said Bridget.

"Tomorrow," amended Mark, calling after her as he switched off the telly. "She'll call you tomorrow."

Bridget closed the door, sighing again.

Mark rose to his feet, meeting her at the top of the landing, holding his arms out to her. She accepted his embrace, holding on tightly to him. He planted a kiss on the top of her head, then reared back to look at her. "Everything all right?"

"Yes. Disaster averted." She pressed her face farther into his shirt. "I'm just wiped beyond belief."

"I'm sorry." He tightened his arms around her, nuzzling into the hair just over her ear. It felt so good to just hold her, to be close to her, as he'd wanted to do all day.

"Oh, _geez_, Mark," she said suddenly, pushing away from him. "I told you I'm exhausted. Give it a rest."

He realised with a certain level of mortification that his body had picked up where it had left off at the brunch earlier that day. "Bridget, I'm sorry. You don't know the day I've had."

She raised an eyebrow.

He wasn't sure he could adequately verbalise the chain of events leading to that very moment, so instead he simply went over to his discarded jacket, reached into the pocket, and pulled out the panties he'd kept from their romp in the loo on their way to Paris, displaying them for her to see so there would be no confusion, no misunderstanding. "It all began when Jeremy asked for something to blow his nose in."

She brought her hands to her face, partly horrified, partly smiling; a good sign at least. "_No._ Say you didn't."

"No. They never even left my pocket, though he did see enough to recognise the fabric for what it was."

"No!"

He nodded. "Apparently Magda has something similar."

"We bought them when we went shopping together once. Oh, _God_."

He put them back in the pocket, turned to look out the window at the falling snow. "So you see, this day has been absolute torture for me," he admitted.

He felt her hand on his arm. "My poor dear," she said. "My poor darling Mark." Her hand slipped along his arm and under it, brushing against his waist.

"Bridget," he began throatily, "I strongly suggest you not continue with that unless you've suddenly overcome your exhaustion in the last five minutes."

"Well… no, I haven't," she began dismally. "But I hear a good shag can cure what ails you, and I intend to relieve your suffering in the process as well."

He turned, unable to believe his good fortune, quickly taking hold of her and kissing her before she got a chance to change her mind. From the way she responded, it didn't appear that was likely to happen.

Things had proceeded to the rather hot and heavy stage when the telephone began to ring. The cordless handset was resting next to where they had settled on the settee, right where he had set it earlier. Through the fevered haze of carnal bliss, Mark picked the thing up, and although he couldn't see around his lovely, accommodating, tender, caring Bridget exactly where he was aiming, he hurtled it through the air, heard it hit the kitchen floor with a satisfying smash.

Nothing else was going to get in the way. He was determined. Judging from the resolve with which she moved, so was she.

Afterwards, as he regained his breath from his efforts, he turned her so that her back was against the seat of the sofa, kissing her, smiling all the way, feeling the best he had all day. He pointed out the scattered remains of the cordless phone to her. She began to giggle at the absurdity of it, teasing him that he owed her a new phone, and he chuckled as well. "Well," he said. "Why they call _laughter_ the best medicine, I'll never understand."

"Mmm," she said, a broad grin on her own beatific face. "Headache? What headache? Hmm. Do I still have a head?"

This sent them into a renewed fit of chuckling and he kissed her again. The laughter faded and the passion built once more until she broke away to speak.

"One thing I would like to recommend to you," she said with an air of portentousness. "You might want to put your… _souvenir_ somewhere a little less portable."

"Well, I don't know," he said, equally seriously. "I may need a reminder on my person at all times of the importance of sticking to a steady regimen of follow-up treatment."

………

Over breakfast the following morning, Mark pointed out that the answerphone light was blinking. As they listened to the message—the caller never identified themselves but they hazarded a guess based on the exclamation of surprise that it was Sharon—they realised with a measure of alarm that chucking the phone may have shattered the handset to pieces, but also had had the effect of picking up the call at the same time the answerphone did. They were treated to thirty seconds or so of the sounds of their own recreation before they heard a quick, aghast, "Holy fuck!" before the call disconnected.

Oh, _God_.

_The end._


End file.
